


The Good Guys

by Naeshira



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, GTA AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naeshira/pseuds/Naeshira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does a crew with a reputation for chaos become the leaders of an entire city? In spite of their destruction, their incompetence, their utter lack of finesse? Well… It’s hard to destroy a crew that has the loyalty of the people. The Fake AH Crew takes care of its own. Told from outside perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vengeance

Juan de Rosas had originally done it as a warning. A message to other immigrant workers, telling them to stay away. He’d scrawled it on the side of a building downtown, in spray paint borrowed from a kid down the street. “Don’t work at Greene’s Grocer,” it read, in Spanish, “The boss pays you shit and harasses your women.” 

Two weeks later, Greene was found dead in his office, a bullet wound clean between his eyes. All the large bills were gone from the safe, and a green star was painted on the wall, announcing clearly that the Fake AH Crew had been here. 

Juan’s graffiti warning had a new addition; the Fakes’ green star next to a sloppily drawn thumbs up. Juan painted a simple “Gracias,” and a smiley face. 

Within a month the store had a new name and new management. Business was booming. And ten percent of each month’s profit was transferred to a Swiss bank account, registered to one Mark Nutt. It was a formal thank you. 

By the end of the year, Mark Nutt was receiving at least twenty deposits a month from the Los Santos area. Grocery stores, mom-and-pop restaurants, a couple of carwashes, and even an antiques dealership were ‘repaying loans’ they claimed to owe the man. 

And if a certain LSPD detective hid the reports of dead and missing employers behind walls of red tape and legal jargon, well, no one was complaining.


	2. Safety

Madam Melody was the owner of multiple clubs across Los Santos and she ruled them with a finely manicured iron grip. It was easy to make money off clubs in a place like this, filled with college students, lonely bachelors, bored businessmen, and important senators trying to be discreet. So long as she turned a blind eye to crime, that is. Drugs, alcohol, black market deals, there wasn’t much she could do to stop those. 

But this? This crossed a line. Madam Melody made her way across the club, her high heels clicking quickly on the tile floor, unheard over the thumping base. One of her dancers, a young girl of only 19 or 20, was currently fighting to pull her wrist out of the grasp of an older man. He was tugging her towards the bathrooms, off the side stage. 

Still a few feet away from the situation, Madam Melody paused. Two women were moving to flank the man, and as one grabbed him around the neck, the other moved to release his grip on the girl. In seconds, the man was on his knees, the blond woman with a hand in his hair. The other woman, who had short red hair, was gently leading the dancer towards the door to backstage. She returned and Madam Melody decided to follow the two women as they half-dragged the man out the back door. 

“You wanna try that again, asshole?” the blond woman was snarling, using a surprising amount of strength to shove the man against the brick wall. “Wanna try taking a girl off stage again? Huh?” With each question, she smacked his head into the bricks. 

The red-head was casually messing with a gun, loading it and releasing the safety. She leveled it at the man’s face, and he blanched.

“Ladies.” Madam Melody interrupted, holding both her hands out to show they were empty. Both women watched warily, the man’s head still against the wall, the gun still between his eyes. “As much as I appreciate you protecting my dancers, I would really prefer you shoot him somewhere off my premises.”

“Oh, we weren’t gonna shoot him.” The red-head smiles. Her Hawaiian shirt looked out of place in the back alley, and she clicked the safety back onto the gun. “We were gonna tag him and have the Vagabond get him later.” 

The man started squirming, even more scared than before. The blond made a face, releasing him just enough to bring her fist back and hit him hard enough to knock him out. “We’ve been watching this creep for a while,” she said, stepping closer and readjusting her clothes. Her arms were covered in tattoos. “He’s been trying this in other clubs too.” 

Madam Melody threw an unimpressed look at the figure on the ground. “Men are disgusting,” she commented. “I’ll have to hire more bouncers to keep my girls safe.” 

“You’re Madam Melody?” the red-head asks, and she nods. “I know a few people who could help with that.” 

“I can’t guarantee you any jobs,” Madam Melody warns, reaching into her bra for a card. “But if you send them to me I’ll look them over and see if they’re good for it.” 

The red-head takes the card, and the blond steps forward. “We’re with the Fake AH Crew,” she introduces. “We run our own checks on the people we hire. I can promise your girls won’t be hurt by anyone we send you. And if they do try anything, I will personally tear them apart.” 

Madam Melody nods, not entirely surprised by the news. She’d met Ramsey before, using one of her club’s back room to make a weapons deal. He’d tipped her a good amount of money, bought a good amount of alcohol, and left the place with little trouble. She respected the Fakes.

The three women shook hands, before returning inside. Three weeks later, her clubs were bolstered by extra bouncers, many of whom were women. Her dancers were happy and safe, and her customers behaved themselves. 

The Fake AH Crew got free drinks and Madam Melody’s personal protection. It quickly became one of the most powerful alliances in Los Santos.


	3. Charity

It was the middle of winter and Sarah Levinsky was tired of dragging her young daughters, ages six and nine, to the soup kitchen. But she had little other option, out of work as she was. That night was the final night of Hanukkah, they deserved a good meal and the two little gifts she’d scrimped and saved to buy for them. She sucked it up and walked her daughters downtown. 

The first thing she noticed was the lights. And the smell. Rachel started tugging her mother’s sleeve, urging them forward. The dingy soup kitchen was bright and bustling, the tables all decked in simple plastic linens and new bright lights hung around the walls. 

“Look at all the food, Mama!” Michelle whispered, and Sarah looked where she was pointing. Each plate that walked past them to a table was piled high with turkey and boiled potatoes and vegetables and bread. They made Sarah’s mouth water, and she eagerly followed her daughters to grab plates of their own. 

This was not a well-funded area of town, and part of Sarah wondered where the kitchen had got so much money. Well-sized turkeys were expensive this time of year, and for this many people! Part of her always seemed to worry, and she fidgeted nervously with the edges of the paper plate. 

She could name almost all the soup kitchen volunteers. Madge, the woman who worked wonders with soup; Donald, the man who always offered to carry plates for the elderly; Tyson, the kid who came to do community service every month. But standing proudly with a pair of tongs over the turkey, was a new man. He was short and stocky, with a smile like sunshine. Even though it was winter, he wore a tank under his apron, and Sarah zeroed in on the tattoo on his shoulder. It was a crest of sorts, with a name. And beneath it… oh. A broken circle surrounding a green star. This man, whose nametag cheerily read “Jeremy” in block letters, was one of the Fakes. 

Sarah connected the dots. The money, the food, the people. The Fake AH Crew was funding the night. 

Michelle and Rachel reached the man first and eagerly held out their plates. He scooped large helpings of turkey out of his warming pan and gave them both a smile. “And how are you ladies doing tonight?” he asked, his accent clearly East Coast.

“We’re good! It’s Hanukkah!” Michelle said cheerfully. It had always been her favorite holiday.

“Oh, well Happy Hanukkah to you!” the man said, and her girls both politely thanked him for the turkey. 

Sarah gave him a wry smile and took her own portion. He wished her a Happy Hanukkah as well, and she ushered her girls back to a table once they had loaded up with food. 

Her girls dug in, but Sarah’s appetite seemed to falter. The Crew was notorious for guns and violence, robbing banks and shooting people. They were not at all people she would have her daughters associate with. 

Madge came bustling over, taking a night off from soup to greet her favorite regulars. “Hello little darlings, are you well?” 

Sarah took one of Madge’s hands. The motherly woman looked happier than she’d ever seen her. “Madge, that’s the Crew here? What are they –?”

“Oh, Sarah dear. They’re going to pay me!” Madge clapped her other hand over Sarah’s. “They’re going to donate funds to us, and we can get better stoves and fresher food. Sarah, it’s a Christmas miracle, the Fakes are gonna be the real deal.” 

“Oh, I’m happy for you, Madge!” Sarah rose to give her a soft hug. Madge deserved the money, with the amount of time she spent here. The poor woman was still paying off her children’s college loans. 

Sarah felt her chest ease a little, and she was able to finish her food. Madge was a magnet for good people, and if the Fakes could see that, then surely they wouldn’t break that promise. She listened to her daughters talk about school and for the first time that year felt the spirit of the season. If the most dangerous people like the Fake AH Crew could soften their hearts for people, then surely not all was lost. Surely, things would turn up soon. 

A tall man with long, shaggy, black hair and thick glasses and a nametag reading “Matt” came to wipe down the table next to them. Sarah could recognize the Crew tattoo on the inside of his forearm. She relaxed into her seat and wished him a happy holiday.


	4. Acceptance

Police Chief Hullum heaved a sigh as he saw the amount of papers that had accumulated on his desk overnight. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of his ergonomic chair, already looking forward to the bleak coffee in the break room. Before he could even move towards his office door, someone knocked, and Chief Hullum held back a groan as he recognized the cheerful tapping. He dropped into his seat and mourned his empty coffee cup. “Come in, Shawcross.” 

A shaggy head of sandy blond hair poked around his door with a bright grin. “Good morning, sir!” 

“What do you need?” Chief Hullum couldn’t say he completely trusted Shawcross. The man was shifty with his former ties to gang members, even if he claimed to be on the straight and narrow now. There was no question he had crooked cops in his department, but Shawcross was one who hid it well. 

“I’ve got a report for you!” the detective closed the door behind him and held up a manila folder. “I was just about to file it, but I thought you’d like to see this one before I do.” 

Chief Hullum rose an eyebrow and accepted the folder, opening it and pausing. A color picture was pinned to the inside of the folder, featuring three very recognizable men. In the foreground, taking the picture like a selfie, was the familiar mustache of Geoff Ramsey. He was making a face, his tongue out and his eyebrows raised. In the background, his knife held threateningly high, stood the Vagabond. The mask was a blank stare, the leather jacket spotless for once. 

And, looking like he was about to shit his pants, Marcus Anole was sat with one of Vagabond’s gloved hands gripping his shoulder. He looked to be tied up with heavy chains, and his face was red and blotchy from crying. Anole was a notorious thorn in Hullum’s side. He was the head of a sex trafficking ring, with his fingers in every back alley and seedy corner in the city. Most recently, Hullum had been tracking reports of missing girls from various countries in Central America, all suspected to have ties to Anole’s contacts. Hullum couldn’t help the swell of satisfaction at seeing the man look so terrified. 

“We got a call in late last night.” Detective Shawcross said, reminding the chief that he was still in the room. “Miles and I went and checked it out. By the time we got there, the Fakes had a whole truck of girls intercepted from Anole’s latest operation. Apparently Anole himself was still in with Ramsey and the Vagabond, so we decided to leave him alone.” 

Hullum nodded. He wouldn’t want to be in the middle of that either. “And the girls?” 

“We took them to the hospital. They’re all getting medical help and awaiting identification.” Shawcross let his face fall into a sad frown, “They were all so scared, babbling away in Spanish and crying. It was hard to explain to them that we were the good guys.” 

Chief Hullum thumbed through the rest of the folder. It was a compilation of case files and notes on Anole and his business. Maps marked with locations and routes were taped together, and little pinholes were evident where he’d been hit… by the Fakes or by his own men, Hullum couldn’t tell. He noticed that one or two of the case files had handwriting scrawled across the margins, making notes he couldn’t quite recognize. He made a mental note to tell the IT team to bolster their firewalls again, it looked like the Fakes had hacked their classified files… again. 

“Uh… Last I heard,” Shawcross continued, nodding down at the picture that the chief had set aside, “Anole was still alive.” 

Hullum flipped over the picture. A note was written in small print, in a handwriting that was achingly familiar: We left the bastard alive. He’s bloody and missing a few important parts of anatomy. If you want him alive, he’s tied up under the pier on the boardwalk. If you want him dead, he’ll still be tied up under the pier on the boardwalk, just wait a few hours. – Ramsey 

Chief Hullum thought for a moment, bitter vengeance and proper justice warring in his head. He sighed and tossed the picture back into the folder before handing it back to Shawcross. “Take Detective Luna and go arrest him at the pier. Leave now, but if you get caught in rush hour, I won’t tell.” 

Shawcross gave a dark smirk, tucking the folder under his arm. “I think we’ll make a stop by that drive-through donut shop on the way, it’s not too packed this time of the morning, right?” 

Hullum didn’t bother to grace that with an answer, waving the man out of his office. He really needed that caffeine now. 

He returned to his desk with a steaming mug of straight black coffee. He logged into his computer and pulled up all files he had on Ramsey and the Fake AH Crew, noting that Shawcross had already entered the Anole case into the databank. He could appreciate that they took care of the city the way they did, criminals and predators like Anole had been on the decline in the last five years. 

But at the same time, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Chief Hullum didn’t like how an organized gang had such control of his city, much less such control of his police department. He added Detective Kerry Shawcross to the list of suspected police insiders on file, knowing that no evidence would be found and the name removed. He let out another sigh, and closed the files.

**Author's Note:**

> First ever RT fanfic! I hope you guys enjoy!


End file.
